No Longer a Dead Man
by DrKCooper
Summary: Post-ep for "Dead Man's Switch" (1x20). How Sherlock feels about Joan and his sobriety. Short one shot.


_Disclaimer: All recognizable _Elementary_ characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to Arthur Conan Doyle and CBS. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended._

_Author's Note: I recently read that it is futile to 'ship these two characters. Isn't that what 'shipping is about? To want something to happen where it likely won't? Isn't that how 'shipping began? I don't see how these two characters are less worthy of such attention. In fact, I think they are even more worthy than some of the fandoms out there. The latest episode is exactly why I believe this. Joan and Sherlock are just too perfect, quirky and adorable together. And there is no question that she has saved him. Post-ep for "Dead Man's Switch" (1x20). –DKC_

**No Longer a Dead Man**

The buzzing of the tattoo machine filled the brownstone. Sherlock sat pondering the case he just closed and more importantly, the encounter he had with Joan about his sobriety chip. For all Alfredo's effort, he wasn't Watson and he never would be. His sobriety, the very act of getting his life back and ending the march toward death he was inevitably on, would forever be tied to Joan Watson. He meant what he said when he told her it didn't feel right to tell Alfredo about his relapse just one day after entering rehab before telling Joan. It was Joan. His Joan. And he let her see him completely raw with emotion. He had let Joan in, perhaps for the first time. He let her see the real man underneath the bravado, the intelligence and the tattoos.

"Hey. I didn't hear you come in," Joan says to Sherlock as she enters the living room.

"You know me, stealthy as a shadow," he responds in a voice that gives away nothing and yet everything.

Joan Watson knew that when Sherlock Holmes wanted to put up a façade, it was clear as day. She knew that his voice revealing nothing spoke volumes to where he was. Sherlock spent far too much time in his own head. This is something Joan had learned quickly in their year of knowing one another.

"How'd it go with Alfredo?" she asked.

Joan knew it must have been incredibly difficult for this proud man to admit what he had to her—that he'd relapsed within 24 hours of choosing to give up the drugs that had overtaken his life. What he'd said about choosing to give up drugs stuck in her memory.

"Liberating. As you predicted. I'm lucky to have him." Sherlock said, holding back the more important truth: He was lucky to have Joan.

"Look at the time. Happy real anniversary," Joan attempted to keep any sort of celebratory tone out of her voice for fear of irritating him.

"Regardless of the actual start date of my sobriety, I still have no interest in public celebrations, speeches, encouragements or the bestowing of chips."

"I know. Found it at a secondhand store," Joan said, handing him a gift that had been wrapped with surgical precision. "It's dark. It's not just for anyone. But I thought it was very you. I just wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you."

Joan left Sherlock to open the gift, walking slowly toward the stairs. Sherlock found a framed poem. Robert Frost. He'd never much cared for American poetry. He was a Brit, after all. But the words of "Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening" spoke to him in a way they never had before. Of course Watson would understand the connection Sherlock would have with this poem.

"Watson?" Sherlock said softly after reflecting on the gift in silence.

"Hmm?" Joan said from the first step of the staircase.

"Luck is a strange thing," he stated without emotion, leaving Joan confused and leaning on the banister. "You may have horrid luck, the type that brings you to your knees. Luck that, by any measure, is your breaking. That luck I am familiar with, Watson."

"Sherlock?" Joan questioned, unsure of where this was going.

Before finishing his thought, Sherlock stood and began walking slowly toward Joan's place on the stairs.

"The luck that breaks a man, that broke me, brought me to you. I was a dead man walking, Watson. Until you. That luck, well…" Sherlock approached Joan, her height well above his as she stood on the step above him. "…it saved me. You saved me."

Joan felt a tear slipping away and could see the emotion in Sherlock's eyes as he looked directly into her eyes in the dim stairwell.

"You…" Joan choked on her tears.

Before she could complete her thought, Sherlock's strong, tattooed arms were wrapped around her waist. His head rested against the place where her chest met her shoulder. She was overwhelmed by this complex, intelligent, difficult man. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and held him tight.

"You saved me, too," she whispered as she kissed the top of his head. "You saved me, too, Sherlock."

_-finis-_


End file.
